CHAPTER XIVSHADOWS
A desire to ride once more in the peaceful sunshine of the land she loved was one of the first indications that Barbara was recovering from the shock occasioned by her father’s death. For two or three days she had not stirred from her room, except to go downstairs to cook her meals. She had spent much of her time sitting at a window nursing her sorrow.
But on this morning she got out of bed feeling more composed than usual, with several new emotions struggling for the mastery. One of those emotions was that of intolerance.
Harlan’s assumption of authority enraged her. He had come to the Rancho Seco with no credentials other than his mere word that her father had forced him to promise to “take hold” of “things.” And she intended, this very morning, to send Harlan away, and to assume control of the ranch herself.
This determination held until after she had breakfasted, and then she stood for a long time in the kitchen door, looking out into the brilliant sunshine, afflicted with a strange indecision.
Harlanhadhelped to fill the void created by her father’s death—that was certain. There had been something satisfying in his presence at the ranch; it had seemed to mean an assurance for her safety; she had felt almost as fully protected as when her fatherhad been with her. It angered her to see him moving about the place as though he had a perfect right to be there, but at the same time she felt comfortably certain that as long as he was around no harm could come to her.
Her emotions were so contradictory that she could not reach a decision regarding the action she should take and she bit her lips with vexation as she stood in the doorway.
Later, her cheeks a little flushed with the realization that she was surrendering to an emotion that she could not understand—but which, she decided guiltily, her face crimson, had its inception in a conviction that she would regret seeing Harlan ride away, to return no more—she went to the corral, roped her pony, threw saddle and bridle on it, mounted the animal, and rode away—westward.
She had not traveled more than half a mile when she heard the rapid beating of hoofs behind her. Glancing swiftly backward, she saw Purgatory coming, Harlan in the saddle, smoking a cigarette.
Her pulses leaped, unaccountably, and the crimson flush again stained her cheeks; but she sat rigid in the saddle, and looked straight ahead, pretending she had not discovered the presence of horse and rider behind her.
She rode another half mile before the flush died out of her cheeks. And then, responding to a swift indignation, she brought Billy to a halt, wheeled him, and sat motionless in the saddle, her face pale, her eyes flashing.
With apparent unconcern Harlan rode toward her. The big black horse did not change his pace, nor did Harlan change expression. It seemed to the girl that in both horse and rider were a steadfastness of purpose that nothing could change. And despite her indignation, she felt a thrill of admiration for both man and horse.
Yet her eyes were still flashing ominously when Harlan rode to within a dozen paces of her and brought the big black to a halt.
There was an expression of grave respect on Harlan’s face; but she saw a lurking devil in his eyes—a gleam of steady, quizzical humor—that made her yearn to use her quirt on him. For by that gleam she knew he had purposely followed her; that he expected her to be angry with him for doing so. And the gleam also told her that he had determined to bear with her anger.
“Well?” she inquired, icily.
“Good mornin’, ma’am.” He bowed to her, sweeping his broad-brimmed hat from his head with, it seemed to her, an ironical flourish.
“Is there something you want to speak to me about?” she asked, her chin elevated, disdain in her eyes. She assured herself that when he glanced at her as he was doing at this instant, she positively hated him. She wondered why she had tolerated his presence.
“I wasn’t havin’ any thoughts about speakin’ to you, ma’am. Kind of a nice mornin’ for a ride, ain’t it?”
“If one rides alone,” she returned, significantly.
“I enjoy ridin’ a whole lot better when I’ve got company,” he stated, gravely, with equal significance.
“Meaning that you have made up your mind to ride with me, I suppose?” she said coldly.
“You’ve hit it, ma’am.”
“Well,” she declared, her voice quivering with passion; “I don’t want you to ride with me. You came here and usurped whatever power and authority there is; and you are running the Rancho Seco as though it belongs to you. But you shan’t ride with me—I don’t want you to!”
Had she been standing she must have stamped one foot on the ground, so vehement was her manner. And the flashing scorn of her eyes should have been enough to discourage most men.
But not Harlan. His eyelids flickered with some emotion; and his eyes—she noted now, even though she could have killed him for his maddening insistence—were blue, and rimmed by heavy lashes that sun and sand had bleached until the natural brown of them threatened to become a light tan.
She studied him, even while hating him for she saw the force of him—felt it. And though she was thinking spiteful things of him, she found that she was forming a new impression of him—of his character, his appearance, and of the motives that controlled him.
And she thought she knew why men avoided having trouble with him. She told herself that if she were a man and she were facing him with violence in her heart, she would consider seriously before she betrayedit to him. For in his eyes, in the lips, in the thrust of his chin—even in the atmosphere that surrounded him at this instant, was a threat, an unspoken promise, lingering and dormant, of complete readiness—almost eagerness, she was convinced—for violence.
She drew a sharp breath as she watched him. And when she saw his lips curving into a slight smile—wholesome, though grave; with a hint of boyish amusement in them—she got another quick impression of his character, new and startling and illuminating.
For behind the hard, unyielding exterior that he presented to men; back of the promise and the threat of violence, was the impulsiveness and the gentleness that would have ruled him had not the stern necessity of self-preservation forced him to conceal them.
The smile disarmed her. Itdidseem ludicrous—that she should try to force this man to do anything he did not want to do. And she had known that he would not obey her, and ride back to the ranchhouse; she was convinced that she must either go back or suffer him to follow her as he pleased.
And she was determined not to give up her ride. She was determined to be very haughty about it, though; but when she wheeled Billy, to head him again into the western distance, her eyes twinkled her surrender, and her lips trembled on the verge of a defiant smile.
Then Billy felt the quirt on his flank; he snorted with astonishment and disgust, and charged forward, tossing his head intolerantly.
Looking sidelong, after Billy had traveled two orthree hundred yards, Barbara observed that the big black horse was not more than half a dozen steps behind. And curiously, Barbara again experienced that comfortable assurance of protection, and of satisfaction over the nearness of Harlan.
Moved by an entirely unaccountable impulse, she drew the reins slightly on Billy, slowing him, almost imperceptibly, so that both horses had traveled more than a quarter of a mile before the distance between them lessened noticeably.
And then, with an impatience that caused her cheeks to glow, Barbara noted that Purgatory had slowed also, Harlan seemingly accommodating the animal’s pace to her own. It was plain to see that Harlan did not intend to assume that she had relented.
For another quarter of a mile the distance remained the same, and the silence was unbroken except by the rhythmical beating of hoofs through the rustling, matted mesquite.
Then Barbara, yielding to an impulse of righteous anger, brought on by Harlan’s obvious intention to remain at a respectful distance, deliberately brought Billy to a walk and waited until Harlan rode beside her.
“You don’t need to be a brute—even if I did tell you to go back to the ranchhouse!”
“Meanin’ what, ma’am? Why, I don’t remember to have done anything. I was doin’ a heap of thinkin’ just now—if that’s what you mean.”
“Thinking mean things of me—I suppose—for what I said to you.”
He had been thinking of her—seriously. And his thoughts were far from fickle as he watched her now, riding within a few feet of him, her profile toward him, her head having a rigid set, her chin held high, her lips tight-pressed, and her hair drooping in graceful coils over her ears, and bulging in alluring disorder at the nape of her neck.
He was thinking that he had braved, to answer a mere whim, greater dangers than he would be likely to meet in defending her from the wolf-pack which circumstances had set upon her. He was thinking that heretofore his life had been lived without regard to order or system—that he had led a will-o’-the-wisp existence, never knowing that such women as she graced the world. He was thinking of what might have happened to her had not Davey Langan been killed, and if he had not started out to avenge him.
Into his thoughts at this minute flashed a mental picture that paled his face and brought his lips into straight, hard lines—a picture of Barbara at the mercy of Deveny.
With a quick turn he brought Purgatory around in front of Billy, blocking the animal’s further progress westward. The girl started at the rapid movement, and watched him fearfully, dreading—she knew not what.
But his smile—grim and mirthless though it was—partially reassured her, and she sat silent, looking at him as he spoke, rapidly, earnestly.
“I was thinkin’ of you; an’ I wasn’t thinkin’ mean things—about you. I was thinkin’ of Deveny—an’of what your dad told me over there by Sentinel Rock.
“Your dad told me that you was in danger—that Deveny an’ Strom Rogers an’ some more of them had their eyes turned on you. Your dad made me promise that I’d come here an’ look out for you—an’ I mean to do it. That’s why I went to Lamo when I had no call to go there an’ that’s why I brought Deveny to a show-down in front of you.
“There’s somethin’ goin’ on around here that ain’t showin’ on the surface—somethin’ that’s hidden an’ sneakin’. You heard some of them guys in Lamo gassin’ about the ‘Chief’ bein’ one of the three that sent your dad over the Divide.
“Well, your dad told me that, too—that there was three of them pitched onto him. It was the fellow they call Chief that shot your dad while he was sleepin’—when it was too dark for your dad to see his face. Your dad made me promise to hunt that guy up an’ square things for him. That’s what I’m here for. Anyway, it’s one reason I’m here. The other reason is that I’m goin’ to see that you get a square deal from them guys.
“An’ you won’t get a square deal ridin’ out alone, like this—especially when you head toward Sunset Trail, where Deveny an’ his gang hang out. An’ I’m settin’ down hard on you ridin’ that way. I’m keepin’ you from runnin’ any chances.”
Silently Barbara had watched Harlan’s face while he had been talking. There was no doubt that he was in earnest, and there was likewise no doubt that he was concerned for her safety. But why? It seemed absurdthat Harlan, an outlaw himself, should protect her from other outlaws. Yet in Lamo he had done just that.
Behind his actions, his expressed concern for her, must be a motive. What was it? Was it possible that he was doing this thing unselfishly; that the promise her father had exacted from him had changed him; that in his heart at this instant dwelt those finer impulses which must be dormant in all men, however bad?
The light of that great inquiry was in her eyes; they searched his face for subtlety and craft and cunning—for something that would give her a clue to his thoughts. And when she could find in his expression only a grave concern she pulled Billy around and started him back toward the ranchhouse.
They had not ridden more than a hundred yards before she stole a glance at Harlan.
He was now riding beside her, looking straight ahead, his face expressionless. Had he betrayed the slightest sign of triumph she would have changed her mind about going back to the ranchhouse with him.
As it was, she felt a pulse of rage over her readiness in yielding to his orders. Yet the rage was softened by a lurking, stealthy joy she got out of his masterfulness.
“I presume I may ride in another direction—east, for instance—or north, or south?”
He apparently took no notice of the mockery in her voice.
“You’ll not be ridin’ alone, anywhere,” he declared.
“Oh!” she returned, raising her chin and looking at him with a cold scorn that, she thought, would embarrass him; “I am to have a guardian.”
He looked straight back to her, steadily, seemingly unaffected by the hostility of her gaze.
“It amounts to that. But mebbe I wouldn’t put it just that way. Somebody’s got to look out for you—to see that you don’t go to rushin’ into trouble. There was trouble over in Lamo—if you’ll remember.”
And now he smiled gravely at her, and her face reddened over the memory of the incident. She had been eager enough, then, to seek his protection; she had trusted him.
“That wasn’t your fault,” he went on gently. “You didn’t know then, mebbe, just what kind of a guy Deveny is. But you know now, an’ itwouldbe your fault if you run into him again.”
He saw how she took it—how her color came and went, and how her eyes drooped from his. He smiled soberly.
“Looks to me that you’ve got to pin your faith to a mighty small chance, ma’am.”
“What chance?” She looked at him in startled wonderment, for it had not occurred to her that she faced any real danger, despite the threatening attitude of Deveny, and her isolation. For the great, peaceful world, and the swimming sunlight were full of the promise of the triumph of right and virtue; and the sturdy self-reliance of youth was in her heart.
“What chance?” she repeated, watching him keenly.
“The chance that me an’ Red Linton will be ableto get things into shape to look out for you.” He was gravely serious.
“It must seem a mighty slim chance to you—me comin’ here with a reputation that ain’t any too good, an’ Linton, with his red head an’ his freckles. Seems like a woman would go all wrong, pinnin’ her faith to red hair an’ freckles an’ a hell-raisin’ outlaw. But there’s been worse combinations, ma’am—if I do say it myself. An’ me an’ Red is figurin’ to come through, no matter what you think of us.”
“Red Linton?” she said. “That is the little, short, red-haired man you put in Lawson’s place, isn’t it? I have never noticed him—particularly. It seems that I have always thought him rather unimportant.”
Harlan grinned. “That’s a trick Red’s got—seemin’ unimportant. Red spends a heap of his time not sayin’ anything, an’ hangin’ around lookin’ like he’s been misplaced. But when there’s any trouble, you’ll find Red like the banty rooster that’s figurin’ to rule the roost.
“I knowed him over in Pardo, ma’am—he rode for the T Down for two or three seasons.”
“You are anticipating trouble—with Deveny?” she asked, a tremor in her voice.
“There ain’t any use of tryin’ to hide it, ma’am. Mebbe your dad thought you’d be better off by him not mentionin’ it to you. But I’ve got a different idea. Anyone—man or woman—knows a heap more about how to go about things if they’re sort of able to anticipate trouble. Your dad told me things was in a mixup over here with Deveny an’ some more of his kind; an’I ain’t aimin’ to let you go ramblin’ around in the dark.
“About half the Rancho Seco men belong to Deveny’s gang, Linton says. That’s why I put Linton in Lawson’s place; an’ that’s why I’m askin’ you to stick pretty close to the Rancho Seco, an’ requestin’ you not to go rummagin’ around the country.”
She rode on silently, her face pale, digesting this disquieting news. She remembered now that her fatherhadseemed rather worried at times, and that upon several occasions he had hinted that he was distrustful of some of the Rancho Seco men. But as Harlan had said, he had never taken her completely into his confidence—no doubt because he had not wanted her to worry. That was very like her father—always making life easy for her.
However, covertly watching Harlan, she was conscious of an emotion that the latter did not suspect. The emotion was confidence—not in Harlan, for, though she had seen that he, apparently, was eager to become her champion, she could not forget that he, too, was an outlaw, with no proof that he had been sent to the Rancho Seco by her father; with nothing but his actions to convince her that his motives were founded upon consideration for her welfare.
She thought of John Haydon as she rode beside Harlan; and it was confidence in him that was expressed in her glances at Harlan; she was convinced that she did not have to depend entirely upon Harlan. And when, as they neared the ranchhouse, and she saw a big gray horse standing near the entrance to thepatio, her face reddened and her eyes grew brilliantwith a light that drew a cold smile to Harlan’s face.
“That will be John Haydon’s horse, I reckon,” he said slowly.
“Why,” she returned, startled; “how did you know?”
He rode on, not replying. When they reached the ranchhouse, Harlan loped Purgatory toward one of the bunkhouses, in front of which he saw Red Linton standing. Barbara directed Billy to thepatioentrance, and dismounted, her face flushed, to meet a man who came out of the open gateway to greet her, his face wreathed in a delighted smile.
CHAPTER XVLINKED
“So you came at last?”
Barbara had some difficulty in keeping resentment prominent in her voice as she faced John Haydon, for other emotions were clamoring within her—joy because Haydonhadcome, even though tardily; self-reproach because she saw in Haydon’s eyes a glowing anxiety and sympathy that looked as though they were of recent birth.
There was repressed excitement in Haydon’s manner; it was as though he had only just heard of the girl’s affliction and had ridden hard to come to her.
She was sure of the sincerity in his voice when he grasped her hands tightly and said:
“At last, Barbara! I heard it only this morning, and I have nearly killed my horse getting over here! Look at him!”
The gray horse certainly did have the appearance of having been ridden hard. He stood, his legs braced, his head drooping, his muzzle and chest flecked with foam. Barbara murmured pityingly as she stroked the beast’s neck; and there was quick forgiveness in her eyes when she again looked at Haydon.
Haydon was big—fully as tall as Harlan, and broader. His shoulders bulged the blue flannel shirt he wore; and it was drawn into folds at his slim waist, where a cartridge-studded belt encircled him,sagging at the right hip with the weight of a heavy pistol.
He wore a plain gray silk handkerchief at his throat; it sagged at the front, revealing a muscular development that had excited the envious admiration of men. His hair was coal-black, wavy and abundant—though he wore it short—with design, it seemed, for he must have known that it gave him an alert, virile appearance.
His face, despite the tan upon it, and the little wrinkles brought by the sun and wind, had a clear, healthy color, and his eyes black as his hair, had a keen glint behind which lurked humor of a quality not to be determined at a glance—it was changeable, fleeting, mysterious.
Barbara was silent. The steady courage that had sustained her until this instant threatened to fail her in the presence of this big, sympathetic man who seemed, to her, to embody that romance for which she had always longed. She looked at him, her lips trembling with emotion.
Until now she had had no confidant—no one she could be sure of. And so, with Haydon standing close to her, though not too close—for he had never been able to achieve that intimacy for which he had yearned—she told him what had happened, including details of her father’s death, as related to her by Harlan; finishing by describing the incident with Deveny in Lamo (at which Haydon muttered a threat) and the subsequent coming of Harlan to the Rancho Seco, together with the story of his assumption of authority.
When she concluded Haydon laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.
“It’s too bad, Barbara. And on top of it all, Lawson had to play the beast, too, eh? Why didn’t you send someone to me?”
“There was no one to send.” Her voice threatened to break, despite the brave gleam that flashed through the moisture in her eyes. “Lawson had sent the men away; and when they came in Harlan took charge of them. And—besides,” she admitted, dropping her gaze, “I—I thought you ought to—I thought you would——”
He shook her, reprovingly, laughing deeply as he led her through the gateway into thepatio, where they sat on a bench for a long time, talking, while the aspect of thepatiobegan to change, becoming again a place of cheerfulness flooded with the soft, radiant light of returning happiness—reflected in her eyes; while the sunlight streaming down into the enclosure took on a brightness that made the girl’s eyes glisten; while the drab and empty days since her father’s death began to slip back into the limbo of memory—the sting and the sorrow of them removed. So does the heart of youth respond to the nearness of romance.
They had been talking for half an hour when Barbara remembered that Haydon had not expressed a desire to meet Harlan.
Haydon’s face lost a little of its color as he replied to her suggestion that they find the man.
But he laughed, rather mirthlessly, she thought.
“I intend to see him, Barbara—but alone. Thereare several things of importance that I want to say to him—chiefly concerning his conduct toward you.”
He got up. Barbara rose also, and walked with him, outside the gate, where he got on his horse, smiling down at her.
“Harlan was right about your riding out alone. I’d stay as close to the ranchhouse as possible. There’s no telling what Deveny might try to do. But don’t worry. If it wasn’t so soon after—after what has happened—I would—” He smiled, and Barbara knew he meant what he had said to her many times—about there being a parson in Lazette, a hundred miles or so northeastward—and of his eagerness to be present with her while the parson “tied the knot.” His manner had always been jocose, and yet she knew of the earnestness behind it.
Still, she had not yielded to his importunities, because she had not been quite sure that she wanted him. Nor was she certain now, though she liked him better at this moment than she had ever liked him before.
She shook her head negatively, answering his smile; and watched him as he rode around a corner of the ranchhouse toward the corral where, no doubt, he would find Harlan.
Harlan had ridden directly to the bunkhouse door and dismounted. Red Linton said nothing until Harlan seated himself on a bench just outside the bunkhouse door. Then Linton grinned at him.
“There’s a geezer come a-wooin’,” he said.
Harlan glared at the red-haired man—a truculent,savage glare that made Linton stretch his lips until the corners threatened to retreat to his ears. Then Linton assumed a deprecatory manner.
“They ain’t no chance forhim, I reckon. He’s been burnin’ up the breeze between here an’ the Star for more’n a year—an’ she ain’t as much as kissed him, I’d swear!”
Harlan did not answer.
“You saw him?” questioned Linton.
“Shut your rank mouth.”
Linton chuckled. “I didn’t know you’d been hit that bad. Howsomever, if youhavebeen, why, there’s no sense of me wastin’ time gassin’ to you. They ain’t nothin’ will cure that complaint but petticoats an’ smiles—the which is mighty dangerous an’ uncertain. I knowed a man once——”
Harlan got up and walked to the bunkhouse. And Linton, grinning, called loudly after him, pretending astonishment.
“Why, he’s gone. Disappeared complete. An’ me tryin’ to jam some sense into his head.”
Grinning, Linton sauntered away, vanishing within the blacksmith-shop.
He had hardly disappeared when Haydon appeared from around a corner of the ranchhouse, at about the instant Harlan, sensing the departure of Linton, came to the door, frowning.
The frown still narrowed Harlan’s eyes when they rested upon the horseman; and his brows were drawn together with unmistakable truculence when Haydon dismounted near the corral fence.
Haydon’s manner had undergone a change. When in the presence of Barbara he had been confident, nonchalant. When he dismounted from his horse and walked toward Harlan there was about him an atmosphere that suggested carefulness. Before Haydon had taken half a dozen steps Harlan was aware that the man knew him—knew of his reputation—and feared him.
Respect was in Haydon’s eyes, in the droop of his shoulders, in his hesitating step. And into Harlan’s eyes came a gleam of that contempt which had always seized him when in the presence of men who feared him.
And yet, had not Harlan possessed the faculty of reading character at a glance; had he not had that uncanny instinct of divining the thoughts of men who meditated violence, he could not have known that Haydon feared him.
For Haydon’s fear was not abject. It was that emotion which counsels caution, which warns of a worthy antagonist, which respects force that is elemental and destroying.
Haydon smiled as he halted within a few paces of Harlan and turned the palms of his hands outward.
“You’re ‘Drag’ Harlan, of Pardo,” he said.
Harlan nodded.
“My name’s Haydon. I own the Star—about fifteen miles west—on Sunset Trail. I happen to be a friend of Miss Morgan’s, and I’d like to talk with you about the Rancho Seco.”
“Get goin’.”
Haydon’s smile grew less expansive.
“It’s a rather difficult subject to discuss. It rather seems to be none of my affair. But you will understand, being interested in Barbara’s future, and in the welfare of the ranch, why I am presuming to question you. What do you intend to do with the ranch?”
“Run it.”
“Of course,” smiled Haydon. “I mean, of course, to refer to the financial end of it. Miss Morgan will handle the money, I suppose.”
“You got orders from Miss Barbara to gas to me about the ranch?”
“Well, no, I can’t say that I have. But I have a natural desire to know.”
“I’ll be tellin’ her what I’m goin’ to do.”
Haydon smiled faintly. Twice, during the silence that followed Harlan’s reply, Haydon shifted his gaze from Harlan’s face to the ground between himself and the other, and then back again. It was plain to Haydon that he could proceed no farther in that direction without incurring the wrath that slumbered in Harlan’s heart, revealed by his narrowing eyes.
In Harlan’s heart was a bitter, savage passion. Hatred for this man, which had been aroused by Barbara’s reference to him, and intensified by his visit to the girl, had been made malignant by his appearance now in the rôle of inquisitor.
Jealousy, Harlan would not have admitted; yet the conviction that Haydon was handsome, and that women would like him—that no doubt Barbara already liked him—brought a cold rage to Harlan. Hestood, during the momentary silence, his lips curving with contempt, his eyes glinting with a passion that was unmistakable to Haydon.
He stepped down from the doorway and walked slowly to Haydon, coming to a halt within a yard of him. His hands were hanging at his sides, his chin had gone a little forward; and in his manner was the threat that had brought a paralysis of fear to more than one man.
Yet, except for a slow stiffening of his muscles, Haydon betrayed no fear. There was a slight smile on his lips; his eyes met Harlan’s steadily and unblinkingly. In them was a glint of that mysterious humor which other men had seen in them.
“I know you’re lightning on the draw, Harlan,” he said, his faint smile fading a trifle. “I wouldn’t have a chance with you; I’m not a gun-fighter. For that reason I don’t want any disagreement with you. And I’ve heard enough about you to know that you don’t shoot unless the other fellow is out to ‘get’ you.
“We won’t have any trouble. Be fair. As the man who will ultimately take charge of the Rancho Seco—since Miss Barbara has been good enough to encourage me—I would like to know some things. I’ve heard that Lane Morgan was killed at Sentinel Rock, and that you were with him when he died—and just before. Did he give you authority to take charge of the Rancho Seco?”
“He told me to take hold.”
“A written order?”
“His word.”
“He said nothing else; there were no papers on him—nothing of value?”
Neither man had permitted his eyes to waver from the other’s since Harlan had advanced; and they now stood, with only the few feet of space between them, looking steadily at each other.
Harlan saw in Haydon’s eyes a furtive, stealthy gleam as of cupidity glossed over with a pretense of frank curiosity. He sensed greed in Haydon’s gaze, and knowledge of a mysterious quality.
Haydon knew something about Lane Morgan’s errand to Pardo; he knew why the man had started for Pardo, and what had been on his person at the time of his death.
Harlan was convinced of that; and the light in his eyes as he looked into Haydon’s reflected the distrust and the contempt he had for the man.
“What do you think Morgan had in his clothes?” he questioned suddenly.
A slow flush of color stole into Haydon’s cheeks, then receded, leaving him a trifle pale. He laughed, with a pretense of mockery.
“You ought to know,” he said, a snarl in his voice. “You must have searched him.”
Harlan grinned with feline mirthlessness. And he stepped back a little, knowledge and satisfaction in his eyes.
For he had “looked Haydon over,” following Morgan’s instructions. He had purposely permitted Haydon to question him, expecting that during the exchange of talk the man would say something thatwould corroborate the opinion that Harlan had instantly formed, that Haydon was not to be trusted.
And Haydon’s snarl; the cupidity in his eyes, and his ill-veiled eagerness had convinced Harlan.
Harlan did not resent Haydon’s manner; he was too pleased over his discovery that Haydon possessed traits of character that unfitted him for an alliance with Barbara. And it would be his business to bring those traits out, so that Barbara could see them unmistakably.
He laughed lowly, dropping his gaze to Haydon’s belt; to his right hand, which hung limply near his pistol holster; and to the woolen shirt, with the silk handkerchief at the throat sagging picturesquely.
His gaze roved over Haydon—insolently, contemptuously; his lips twitching with the grim humor that had seized him. And Haydon stood, not moving a muscle, undergoing the scrutiny with rigid body, with eyes that had become wide with a queer sensation of dread wonder that was stealing over him; and with a pallor that was slowly becoming ghastly.
For he had no doubt that at last he had unwittingly aroused the demon in Harlan, and that violence, which he had wished to avoid, was imminent.
But Harlan’s roving gaze, as he backed slightly away from Haydon, came to the breast-pocket of the man’s shirt. His gaze centered there definitely, his eyes narrowing, his muscles leaping a little.
For out of the pocket stretched a gold chain, broken, its upper end—where it entered the buttonhole of the shirt—fastened to the buttonhole with a rawhidethong, as though the gold section were not long enough to reach.
And the gold section of the chain was of the peculiar pattern of the section that Harlan had picked up on the desert near Sentinel Rock.
CHAPTER XVIDEEP WATER
Despite his conviction that he stood in the presence of the mysterious “Chief” of whom he had heard much, Harlan’s expression did not change. There was a new interest added to it, and a deeper glow in his eyes. But he gave no outward evidence of surprise.
“I reckon I searched him,” he said, answering Haydon’s charge. “If I found anything on him I’m turnin’ it over to Barbara Morgan—or hangin’ onto it. That’s my business.”
Haydon laughed, for Harlan’s voice had broken the tension that had come with the interval of threatening silence.
Since he could not induce Harlan to divulge anything of interest there was nothing to do but to withdraw as gracefully as possible. And he backed away, smiling, saying placatively:
“No offense intended, Harlan. I was merely curious on Barbara’s account.” He mounted his horse, urged it along the corral fence, and sent back a smiling:
“So-long.”
Motionless, still standing where he had stood when Haydon climbed on his horse, Harlan watched while the man rode the short distance to the house. At the corner around which he had appeared some minutesbefore, Haydon brought his horse to a halt, waved a hand—at Barbara, Harlan supposed—and then rode on, heading westward toward Sunset Trail.
Harlan watched him until he had penetrated far into the big valley; then he turned, slowly, and sought Red Linton—finding him in the blacksmith-shop.
Later in the day—after Harlan and Linton had talked long, standing in the door of the blacksmith-shop—Linton mounted his horse and rode to where Harlan stood.
Linton was prepared for a long ride. Folded in the slicker that was strapped to the cantle of his saddle was food; he carried his rifle in the saddle sheath, and a water-bag bulged above the horse’s withers.
“You won’t find all the T Down boys yearnin’ to bust into this ruckus,” Harlan said as he stood near Linton’s horse as Linton grinned down at him; “but there’ll be some. Put it right up to them that it ain’t goin’ to be no pussy-kitten job, an’ that it’s likely some of them won’t ever see the T Down again. But to offset that, you can tell ’em that if we make good, the Rancho Seco will owe them a heap—an’ they’ll get what’s comin’ to them.”
He watched while Linton rode eastward over the big level; then he grinned and walked to the ranchhouse, going around the front and standing in the wide gateway where he saw Barbara sitting on a bench in thepatio, staring straight ahead, meditatively, unaware that he was standing in the gateway, watching her.
Harlan watched the girl for a long time—until sheturned and saw him. Then she blushed and stood up, looking at him in slight wonderment as he came toward her and stood within a few feet of her.
On Harlan’s face was a slow, genial grin.
“Sunnin’ yourself, eh?” he said. “Well, it’s a mighty nice day—not too hot. Have you knowed him long?”
The startling irrelevance of the question caused Barbara to gaze sharply at Harlan, and when their eyes met she noted that his were twinkling with a light that she could not fathom. She hated him when she could not understand him.
“Mr. Haydon, do you mean?” she questioned, a sudden coldness in her voice.
Harlan nodded.
“A little more than a year, I think. It was just after I returned from school, at Denver.”
He watched her, saying lowly:
“So it was Denver. I’d been wonderin’. I knowed it must have been some place. Schoolin’ is a thing that I never had time to monkey with—I reckon my folks didn’t believe a heap in ’em.”
“You’ve lived in the West all your life—you were born in the West, I suppose?”
He looked keenly at her. “I expect you knowed that without askin’. I’ve been wonderin’ if it would have made any difference.”
“How?”
“In me. Do you think an education makes a man act different—gives him different ideas about his actions—in his dealin’s with women, for instance?”
“I expect it does. Education should make a man more considerate of women—it is refining.”
“Then you reckon a man that ain’t had any education is coarse, an’ don’t know how to treat a woman?”
“I didn’t say that; I said educationshouldmake a man treat women that way.”
“But it don’t always?”
“I think not. I have known men—well educated men—who failed to treat women as they should be treated.”
“Then that ain’t what you might call a hard-an’-fast rule—it don’t always work. An’ there’s hope for any man who ain’t had schoolin’—if he’s wantin’ to be a man.”
“Certainly.”
“But an educated man can’t claim ignorance when he aims to mistreat a woman. That’s how it figures up, ain’t it?”
She laughed. “It would seem to point to that conclusion.”
“So you’ve knowed Haydon about a year? I reckon he’s educated?”
“Yes.” She watched him closely, wondering at his meaning—why he had brought Haydon’s name into the discussion. She was marveling at the subtle light in his eyes.
“Your father liked Haydon—he told me Haydon was the only square man in the country—besides himself an’ Sheriff Gage.”
“Father liked Haydon. I’m beginning to believe you reallydidhave a talk with father before he died!”
He smiled. “Goin’ back to Haydon. I had a talk with him a little while ago. I sort of took a shine to him.” He drew from a pocket the section of gold chain he had found on the desert, holding it out to her.
“Here’s a piece of Haydon’s watch chain,” he said slowly, watching her face. “The next time Haydon comes to see you, give it to him, tellin’ him I found it. It’s likely he’ll ask you where I found it. But you can say I wasn’t mentionin’.”
He turned, looking back over his shoulder at her as he walked toward the gate.
She stood, holding the glittering links in the palm of one hand, doubt and suspicion in her eyes.
“Why,” she called after him; “he was just here, and you say you talked with him! Why didn’t you give it to him?”
“Forgot it, ma’am. An’ I reckon you’ll be seein’ him before I do.”
Then he strode out through the gate, leaving her to speculate upon the mystery of his words and his odd action in leaving the chain with her when he could have personally returned it to Haydon.
Harlan, however, was grinning as he returned to the bunkhouse. For he wanted Barbara to see Haydon’s face when the section of chain was returned to him, to gain whatever illumination she could from the incident. He did not care to tell her—yet—that Haydon had killed her father; but he did desire to create in her mind a doubt of Haydon, so that she would hesitate to confide to him everything that happened at the Rancho Seco.
For himself, he wanted to intimate delicately to Haydon his knowledge of what had really occurred at Sentinel Rock; it was a message to the man conveying a significance that Haydon could not mistake. It meant that for some reason, known only to himself, Harlan did not intend to tell what he knew.